Lydia
“Come in.”
I knew who it would be before Cruz pushed open the door and stood just inside. Chavez never waited for my permission to enter. Only Cruz. I was once again taken aback by how much he looked like Lorenzo, the love of my life. The man I’d lost before ever telling him what he’d meant to me.
“Chavez wanted me to tell you that dinner was at seven. He says to dress for guests.”
That was code for, “Wear something revealing so I can show you off to all my friends tonight.” I barely contained the eye-roll.
Cruz cleared his throat and quirked a brow. Oops—apparently I hadn’t contained the eye-roll after all.
“Of course. I’ll be down at seven.”
He cleared his throat again.
“Something else I can help you with, Cruz?”
“Sorry, ma’am, but he’d like me to take you shopping to find something new for the evening.”
Chavez was known for his appreciation of fine things. Being a successful drug lord came with a certain prestige, it seemed. Most of the time the people he associated with were the bottom feeders of society looking for a leg-up, a way into the prime time. So, if Chavez was requiring that I go shopping, that meant tonight’s dinner was most likely with the rich and famous of Miami—government officials, movie stars, or uber-successful businessmen and their dimwitted wives half their age.
“Right.” I glanced at the clock. Four in the afternoon. I had three hours to find a suitable dress and still shower and get ready. Lovely. Nothing like last-minute. “Okay, then. I guess we’d better leave right away.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Cruz, what have I said about calling me ma’am?”
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s habit.”
Yes, but why? Cruz didn’t strike me as a southern-bred gentleman. Military maybe? His hair was longish on top but cut military-short on the sides. Was that a preference? Or out of another habit he had? I sighed and grabbed my shoes from the closet. It wasn’t like he was going to tell me. I’d tried for the last five weeks to get the man to open up about himself, but Cruz was a mystery and a man of few words.
My mind drifted back to Lorenzo and our time together all those years ago. Sure, we’d been kids really. High school sweethearts. I’d been advanced in school, and had skipped several grades. So, even though I was a junior when he’d been a senior, I’d actually been four years younger than he was. Fourteen to his eighteen. My father and sister had agreed to help me keep the secret from my peers to protect me from bullying and teasing. Everyone thought I was sixteen, even Lorenzo, and because of my maturity and intellect, I’d pulled it off.
“Ready?” Cruz was standing in the doorway still, and I realized I was just staring at the floor, strolling down memory lane, not moving. I shook off the dark thoughts that eventually crept in anytime I thought about Lorenzo.
“Yes. Sorry.”
I pulled my purse off the bed. Nothing in there but lipstick and a credit card Chavez had given me. No ID, no cell phone. I wondered if I could trust Cruz, get him to call my dad and let me talk to him, since my weekly calls usually involved an audience of Chavez or his goons Juan Carlos Alvaro and Santiago Domingo. But as soon as the thought entered my mind, I brushed it off.
If Chavez found out, he’d beat Cruz, or worse, and I didn’t fool myself into thinking he wouldn’t lay a hand on me, too. So far, he’d been a complete gentleman on the outside. I mean, if you could ignore that I was a prisoner unable to come and go as I pleased, or contact my father or sister freely.
My father had known in that first phone call that I wasn’t with Chavez of my own free will, and I assumed he’d have pulled the security-camera footage, an oversight on Chavez’s men’s parts. His silence had spoken volumes, but there was nothing he or I could do yet. I was waiting on a time where I could make my escape, but since Chavez had hired Cruz, my chances of getting out of there undetected were growing slim. The man watched me like an eagle. Even when he thought I wasn’t looking, I saw how his eyes lingered on me. It was familiar and at moments even tender.
I planned to use that to my advantage.
“Do you have any family close by?” I slid into the buttery-leather seats of the muscle car, and Cruz started up the engine.
“No.”
Really not a conversationalist.
“Oh? So, do they live someplace else?”
“No.”
I wasn’t giving up.
“Do you not have any family to speak of, or are you unwilling to have a conversation with me about it?”
I saw the side of Cruz’s lips quirk up just a fraction before it disappeared, and I wondered if I’d imagined that almost smile.
“No family.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Well, that was interesting.
“I have a sister. She’s a freshman at Miami State, and my dad is a doctor here in the city.”
“What do they think about you marrying Chavez?”
I noticed Cruz never referred to Emilio by his first name or even as Mr. Chavez. Just Chavez. It was also the first personal question he’d asked me in our six weeks together.
“My sister is upset, naturally. Our mother was killed when I was fifteen, but she was only five. I helped raise her. She feels like it’s a betrayal of sorts. My father is supportive of whatever I want to do.”
Cruz snorted, turning the wheel sharply to the left. I held tightly to the console, trying to keep myself righted in the seat.
“What the hell?”
“Sorry.” He muttered the word under his breath, his tone indicating he wasn’t sorry at all.
“Did I say something to piss you off?”
Cruz turned a hard stare on me. “Of course not.”
“I don’t understand you at all.”
“You don’t need to understand me.”
“Why are you being so rude?”
“I’m being perfectly polite.”
“Whatever. Let’s get this trip over with so I can get home.” And far away from you. It went unspoken, but hung there between us nonetheless.
Cruz whipped the car into the valet parking at a local strip mall with high-end boutiques lining the sidewalks. The valet opened my door, helping me out as Cruz was given a ticket for pickup. As much as I hated all things relating to Emilio Chavez, the luxurious clothes were a perk to my situation. Of course, I’d gladly trade all the designer duds in the world for my freedom, but I’d learned to take joy in the small things, otherwise I’d go crazy with grief.
I walked to my favorite boutique, a local designer that made only one of each style of dress. If you were lucky, you’d find a jewel in your size that felt as if it had been made just for you. Rebecca Renoir was a young woman in her late twenties and a rising star among the fashion world. She was also personally at the store most days, and I’d come to love my visits with her.
When I opened the door, and the little bell chimed above me, Rebecca popped her head out from behind the wall that hid her office and sewing area.
“Lydia!” Her face broke into a bright smile, and we embraced. I savored the human contact that wasn’t laced with malicious or perverse intent. I missed my family and friends so much, and yet I had to endure this hell to keep them safe. Rebecca was a silver lining.
“So good to see you. I need a dress and quickly.”
Rebecca pulled away, her smile replaced with a look of determination.
“I have just the thing!” Excitedly, she rushed over to a wall of dresses and pulled out a poppy-red strapless dress with a heart-shaped neckline that plunged low. It was exactly something Emilio would love. Tasteful, stylish, expensive, and revealing. I inwardly cringed at how much cleavage would be on display with this particular dress, but it was too beautiful to pass up.
“I’ll try it on.”
Rebecca walked over to the dressing rooms with me, pointing to a small loveseat. “You can have a seat there, Cruz.”
Yep, we were all on a first-name basis. Cruz gave Rebecca a grateful smile before sitting on the loveseat, and I was suddenly overcome with jealousy that she was able to pull those smiles from him, and yet all I ever received were indifferent glances and scowls. Not that I should care. He was my babysitter, after all. Why did I care if he smiled at me or liked me? It changed nothing.
I slipped into the dressing room, pulling the curtain closed behind me, and slid out of my skinny jeans and yellow blouse. I took my bra off since I’d never be able to wear one with the dress, and wondered briefly how I’d keep the girls contained for the evening. I’d ask Rebecca.
When the dress was on, but not completely zipped up, I left the safety of the dressing room and walked to the large three-way mirrors.
“Rebecca?”
“She had a phone call she had to take.” Cruz’s voice made me jump at the nearness. He was right behind me, so close I could smell his aftershave, a warm mix of musk and citrus.
“Oh. I, um, just need help with the zipper.” Why was I suddenly so nervous?
“Let me.” His warm hands touched my skin as he held the dress in place to zip the back. My eyes found his in the mirror, his face a mix of agony and confusion. When he met my gaze, we stood there for endless seconds just looking at each other. There was something so familiar about him. He was so much like my Lorenzo. But that wasn’t possible.
Lorenzo Gallos was dead.
“Oh, my gosh! It looks gorgeous on you!” Rebecca’s exclamation broke through our staring contest, and I smiled, cringing inwardly when I saw in the mirrors how fake it looked on my face. I caught a view of the dress, though, and, damn, it did look good. Fit like a freaking glove.
“It’s a beautiful dress. My only concern is—” I shot a look in Cruz’s direction, relieved when I saw that he’d left the room. “A bra.”
“I have just the thing.” Rebecca disappeared into a small closet and returned with a bra that plunged low in the front but would at least give me some coverage. Possibly even a little lift.
“Perfect. Thank you. I’ll take them both.”
***
As I suspected, dinner was with a local businessman and his bimbo wife. The woman was so dull, a brick had more personality than she did. Emilio sat her next to him and across from Mr. Daniel Berger, a man who looked to be in his early fifties. His wife, however, was younger than me. And bored to tears, it seemed.
“So, Tiffany, what do you do?” I thought maybe I should give her a chance. I mean, I wasn’t exactly being open-minded. Perhaps she was fascinating and had caught Mr. Berger with her stellar personality and not her perky boobs and tiny waist.
“What do I do?” Her lip curled up in derision.
“Yes—do you have a career or hobby?”
“Oh, I don’t work.” She turned her nose up as if it was something profane to have a career. “I shop. Decorate our home. And I do lots of charity work.”
Nope. It was definitely the boobs. And no doubt her idea of charity was attending fancy parties or donating large sums of money at benefit auctions. I decided to keep my opinions to myself.
“Do you work, Lydia?” The question came from Mr. Berger who’d had a difficult time keeping his eyes above my chin all night.
“I, um, used to. I’m a nurse practitioner.”
“I rescued her from the slums of the city. Her father is Dr. Esteban Ayala.” Chavez smiled at me as if he had indeed done just that—rescued me from my life—the life I’d loved. Sure, I’d been a bit lonely and completely consumed with the inner-city kids and all the problems they’d faced, but it had been fulfilling. At least most days.
If I were completely honest, the last three years since hearing that Lorenzo had been tortured and killed in captivity, I’d wondered what I was doing with my life. I’d become more aware of the loneliness that crept in at night while drinking red wine with a box of powdery mac-and-cheese in front of my television.
But it was far better than being a prisoner in luxury. I’d gladly return to it, if it meant my freedom.
“Yes, yes. Esteban, I know him well. How is he doing?”
How the hell should I know? I’d barely spoken to him in six weeks.
“Good. Very good.”
Chavez nodded his approval at my blatant lie. Play the game. Just play the game.
“Wonderful. I’ve been meaning to reach out to him about my bid for city council. I know he’s so well connected, and I’m sure he’d be happy to support my endeavors.”
Code for: I’d like to hit him up for campaign money.
“You should definitely reach out to him and mention that you dined with me tonight. He’ll be pleased to hear it.”
Emilio gave me a warning look before putting on a false smile and changing the subject with Daniel Berger. I might pay for that, but if it got a message to my father that I was indeed okay, besides the papery-thin conversations I had with him each week, it was a price I was willing to pay.
Dinner was delicious as usual. Pilar always had a way of blending traditional Venezuelan dishes with a Miami flair. She was a master, and it was hard to remember my prisoner status while eating her scrumptious meals.
When we were finished, Chavez invited Daniel to his study for cigars and drinks, a tradition for Emilio when he was entertaining. Unfortunately, that meant I’d need to entertain the bimbo.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” I motioned to the settee in the sitting room.
“Do you have champagne?”
“Yes, of course.”
Apparently, Chavez had done his homework on the couple as a bottle of expensive champagne sat chilling in a container on the drink cart. I noticed the red wine I preferred was nowhere to be found, which meant he expected me to drink what Tiffany was drinking.
I poured us both a glass and handed it to her before taking a seat on the chair across from her. She took the phone out of her purse and began scrolling through a social media site. At least, it appeared that was what she was doing.
Since I didn’t have a phone, I sat in the chair, staring straight ahead. We had nothing in common, and I had given up any pretenses of trying out conversation with her at dinner.
A throat cleared just outside the casing of the room, and I glanced over my shoulder, seeing Cruz standing guard nearby. He quirked that eyebrow, a habit he had in common with Lorenzo, and I was struck again at the resemblance.
Tan skin that spoke of his Latino heritage, dark eyes that penetrated to your soul, and short, wavy hair that begged for you to run your fingers through it. And when he wore that mischievous look, he appeared years younger with boyish charm.
Yet, I was struck again at Cruz’s odd features. He was handsome, no doubt. But everything seemed a bit too perfect. His chin was chiseled and hard, and his cheekbones prominent… almost too prominent. It was almost as if someone had chiseled him from marble, the symmetry of his features in total perfection, unmarred by nature and time.
Tiffany glanced over at Cruz, and a wicked grin spread across her face. She adjusted her already very low-cut blouse to reveal even more of her ample cleavage, no doubt surgically enhanced—no one’s boobs were that perky on their own. It was clear she’d decided against a bra, the thin satin material leaving very little to the imagination.
She stood and sauntered over to Cruz, her hips swaying as she moved seductively across the room. I rolled my eyes and tossed the champagne back in one swallow. I walked over to the drink cart and poured myself another glass as I tried not to watch Tiffany flirt shamelessly with Cruz.
In his defense, he seemed completely unaffected by her charms. At one point, she laid her hand on his chest, where he quickly removed it, pushing her away and taking a step back. Finally, he’d had enough.
“Ms. Ayala, if you need me, I’ll be just down the hall.”
I smiled sweetly, knowing it would drive him crazy. “Thank you, Cruz. I shouldn’t need further assistance.”
He glared, and I barely contained my laughter.
Tiffany pouted, returning to her settee. “It’s not fair that you have a bodyguard as good-looking as he is. Daniel won’t get rid of that ugly, evil man that works for me. I’ve tried to make him see reason, but he won’t budge. It’s so unfair.”
Probably because Daniel is smarter than she gave him credit for. He knew his wife would jump any young man’s bones he put in his employ.
I decided she didn’t need a response and went back to staring at the wall and consuming my champagne in record time. After about thirty of minutes of hell, Tiffany had slumped against the armrest of the settee, her mouth slightly open in a small O, a soft snore emanating from her.
Half a bottle of champagne meant I needed to go to the restroom. I walked down the hall to the powder room and locked the door as I took care of nature’s call. After washing my hands and reapplying my lipstick, I opened the door and ran smack into Mr. Berger.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” I placed a hand over my cleavage, hoping to convey my apology while also protecting myself from Daniel’s roving eyes.
His hands shot up to grasp my upper arms, and he moved them up and down, rubbing and circling in gentle caresses. “Entirely my fault, dear.”
Daniel didn’t move. Just kept stroking my arms while blocking my path back to safety.
“I should just go check on your wife.”
He snorted. “My wife is probably passed-out cold on your couch, yes?”
I didn’t answer. The entire night she’d seemed completely out of it, almost as if she were drugged up on something. She’d daze off into space and jerk to attention suddenly as if just figuring out where she was.
“Yes, well, I should get back.”
“What’s the hurry? I thought we could get to know each other better.”
Daniel pushed me slightly inside the bathroom, and I wondered if the man had a death wish. Did he have any idea who he was dealing with? I was Emilio Chavez’s fiancée, and I wasn’t stupid enough to get caught in his arms, whether it was my fault or not.
I raised my hands, trying to extricate myself from his hold. He gripped tighter, his fingers digging hard into my flesh. I tried not to wince, but realized I’d failed when Daniel’s eyes lit with excitement. Great—the man liked his women in pain. Poor Tiffany. I suddenly felt sorry for her.
“Mr. Berger, I really must insist on getting back.”
“Daniel, please. And this should only take a couple of moments.” He pressed himself against me, backing me up against the sink. When his hand slid up my dress along the back of my thigh, I knew he wasn’t taking no for an answer.
I fought, pushing with all my might against his hold. I was trained in Krav Maga, and I knew how to get away, but getting away and not hurting him and creating a bigger scene were two different things. I pressed hard against a pressure point on his hand groping my thigh, making him yelp in pain.
“You slut!” Spittle flew out of his mouth, landing on my cheek, and he gripped my arms, turning me to face the sink. With his arm around my neck, he applied just enough pressure to make my vision swim. I turned my head just slightly so he wasn’t cutting off my air supply, but continued to struggle as if he were choking me, making him think he had the upper hand. I knew that once I defended myself, used enough force to really hurt him, it wouldn’t end well, but it seemed the alternative was being raped in the powder room. I waited as he undid his pants, the buckle of his belt jingling as it fell free.
One second. Two. Three went by, and I stomped down hard on the inside of his foot. He released me instantly, as I whirled around and nailed him with a kick to his private parts. The air whooshed out of him as his face turned green, and I opened the door to the powder room, flying out into the hall and right into the chest of Cruz Ortiz.
“Whoa—what happened to you?”
Where I’d been calm before, I was now falling apart. “He—he—”
“Got it.” Cruz’s eyes went deadly, and he released me, entering the bathroom to find Daniel Berger with his pants around his ankles in the fetal position on the floor. Cruz picked him up by the collar of his shirt and lifted him to his feet. As they exited the bathroom, Chavez rounded the corner.
My mussed-up hair, the smeared lipstick where I’d struggled against him, and my overall disheveled appearance were marks against me.
“What the hell is going on here?” Emilio’s voice was as cold as ice, and fear coiled in my belly.
“Your wife tried to take advantage of me. She cornered me in the bathroom, unbuckling my pants and forcing herself on me.”
Seriously? That’s what he was going with? I forced myself on him? A saggy, pale older man who was balding and had a distinct paunch under his tailored, expensive suits.
Chavez looked over at him with disgust, then at me. “Is that true?”
“Of course not. This man tried to rape me.”
“She wanted it!” Daniel screamed out in fury, desperately trying to get his pants up.
“Cruz?”
“She was clearly upset. Looked like she’d kneed him in the jewels and was escaping.”
Chavez nodded. “Escort Mr. Berger and his wife out, please.”
“Wait!” Daniel’s voice was desperate as he realized his grave error in attacking me. “Emilio, please. I’m sorry. She tempted me. It’s her fault. I mean, look at what she’s wearing.”
Cruz lifted the man off his feet as he pushed him towards the front door. Tiffany stood, barely, near the doorway of the sitting room, swaying on her feet.
“What’s going on, Danny baby?”
But Cruz gave Daniel no time to reply as he grabbed her elbow and ushered them both out the front door as she whimpered and whined at being “manhandled.” When it slammed behind them, I turned to Chavez.
He was watching me, his eyes roving over my skin. Every place his gaze touched, I felt cold.
I’d been able to keep Chavez at arm’s length for six weeks, giving him the story that I wanted to wait to be intimate with him until we were married. He’d loved the old-fashioned sentiment and had agreed, never pushing me for more than a kiss. But the way he was looking at me now made me frightened that his time of waiting was over.
He took two steps closer, pushing my hair behind my ear. Then he bent down slowly and kissed my lips. Gently at first, brushing his mouth back and forth against mine before crushing his lips hard against me, cutting my lip in the process. I could taste the blood as he kissed me roughly, pressing me against the wall.
Breathing heavily, he stopped, backing away just a bit before looking over my state of disarray. Before I knew what happened, his hand shot out, slapping me hard against the cheek. I cried out, in shock and pain.
I knew Emilio Chavez was a cruel man. The rumors that surrounded him, his previous wife—it was the stuff nightmares were made of. But until that moment, he’d never laid a hand on me.
My hand lifted to my face, and tears I was unable to control trailed down my cheeks.
“Change your clothes. And burn that dress. Next time don’t come to dinner dressed like a whore.”
Without waiting for further instruction, I took off, running to my room, slamming the door behind me and throwing myself onto the bed.
What had I done to deserve the hand I’d been dealt? And how was I ever going to escape this hell I’d been condemned to?